But You Begin Anyway
by mellarkymia
Summary: The Young Capitol Congress Games give Panem's best and brightest teenagers a chance to make a name for themselves in the political sphere. For Katniss Everdeen, they're a chance to win a full college scholarship, and a chance at a brighter future. She has to rely on her school district partner, Peeta Mellark, and their disgruntled faculty mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, to try to win.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: Welcome to my new WIP. The M rating is for eventual conscious coupling between your favorite OTP and mine. However, before we get there, you will find brief discussion of both Katniss and Peeta in separate relationships. Also, there's discussion of parental alcoholism. If either of those things aren't for you, please read with caution. **

* * *

><p>"Agree or disagree - there should be stricter standards for welfare recipients."<p>

I cringe when I hear the question Mr. Abernathy just posed to my Modern Government class. Because I know that this discussion topic will go over just about the same as every other question about poverty has.

And I'll be stuck sitting in my seventh period class, listening to the most privileged kids at Seam County High School talk about issues they've had no first-hand experience with while I sit and try to hold my tongue.

There's something really appalling about listening to Cashmere Carter, whose father essentially owns half of our town, talk about poor people scamming the system. Because she's come to me multiple times, offering money if I'll write a paper for her.

Sure enough, Cashmere speaks first.

"Agree. _Definitely_ agree," she says, rubbing her perfectly glossed lips together as she flips her golden hair off her shoulder.

"Okay," Mr. Abernathy starts, his tone neutral, as he scribbles her name under the "Agree" column he's chalked onto the classroom blackboard. "Tell me more."

She sighs, like being asked to elaborate on her opinion is somehow asking her to overly exert herself. "It's just, I think people need a hand _up_, not a hand _out_, you know? And like, people get really lazy on welfare. If they don't have any, like, reason to get off of it, why would they? It just gives them an excuse to stay poor."

I roll my eyes at her answer, poking my pencil into my notebook to try to expel some of the frustration I feel as I listen to her.

Mr. Abernathy is too busy scrawling some of the keywords of her argument - "lazy," "stay poor," "excuse," "hand out" - on the board.

"All right, Cashmere. Anything else you'd like to add?"

Cashmere shrugs, tossing an exaggerated look of annoyance at her boyfriend, Gloss. "Just that, like, why should I have to use my hard-earned money to pay for _them_ to eat? It's not right."

"_Your_ money?"

I don't mean to respond out loud. I don't even realize I did it until I notice the way my classmates have turned to look at me, aghast.

I lower my gaze back down to my desk, then, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation that's coming my way. But it's too late.

"Yes," Cashmere snaps. "_My_ money."

I nod, then, setting my lips firmly and catching Mr. Abernathy's eye. He's not doing the best job of hiding the spark of amusement lingering there.

"Okay, Cashmere," I say blandly. "You're right."

"What, you disagree?" She challenges, swiveling in her chair to stare me down.

And maybe it's because it's the last class of a _really_ shitty day; because I'm tired from closing at Sae's Coffee every night this week; because after crunching numbers for weeks and forecasting how much debt I'd be taking on if I accepted a financial aid package from Panem University, I decided last week to put off college. Indefinitely.

Maybe it's because Cashmere has made a huge deal of boasting that she's already picked out her designer dorm room decor.

But whatever compels me, I can't hold it back. I straighten up slightly in my chair and don't look away from her as I respond.

"It's not that simple," I tell her quickly. "There are a lot of factors that play a role in poverty and who ends up poor. And besides, I think it's a bit of a reach for _any_ of us to complain about how our tax dollars are being used. Because they're not ours. Their our parents'."

I can see her face turning red as she glares at me. Because she knows she can't argue that point. And even though Mr. Abernathy always tells us to keep our arguments high-level; not to resort to "you's" and "me's" and "us's" when we're debating, I can see from the way his eyebrow flicks up that he's going to let this one slide.

"Well," she spits haughtily, "At least _my _parents actually make more than minimum wage. At least _they're_ not contributing to the problem."

This time, it's my turn to blush. But not from embarrassment - from anger. Because I know she's not just talking to me - she's talking _about_ me.

I open my mouth to respond, to defend myself against her sly attack.

But then a voice - male, clear, friendly - rises out from the front of the classroom.

"No, she's right," he says. "I agree with Katniss."

Peeta Mellark is coming to my defense. Perfect.

"I mean, sure Cashmere, your parents are doing fine. They don't need to rely on public assistance. But if the time ever came that they need to -"

"It wouldn't," Cashmere interjects snidely. "My parents aren't stupid. They've provisioned for hard times."

"- _if_ the time ever came that they needed to, don't you think they'd be relieved to know the system they paid into for so long is there to help them out? And even if we _did_ limit access to social programs, the costs of poverty would hit all those good, solid, tax-paying folks like your parents in other ways. Higher prices for goods, higher health care premiums… every nation subsidizes its poor, whether they like it or not."

I'm almost seeing red by the time he's done speaking. Because the last thing I need is for Peeta Mellark - the youngest of four golden-boy brothers who've never wanted for anything a day in their life - to defend the impoverished.

Even if I do agree with him.

The bell signaling the end of the day rings, and I get up quickly, hoping to dash out of the room and avoid any further conflict. As I pass by Peeta's desk, I can feel his eyes on me, which only unnerves me more.

"Ms. Everdeen, do you have a minute?"

I stop short in front of the classroom door when I hear my teacher call out my name. And I cringe slightly. Maybe I _didn't_ get away with that personal jab after all.

I linger back, waiting for the rest of my classmates to file out, and then sink into a desk in the front row as Mr. Abernathy closes the door behind the last straggler.

He turns to look at me - and then he grins.

"Ms. Carter is a stunning orator, isn't she?" He says dryly, leaning against the front of his desk.

I blanch, trying to read him. But the twinkle of amusement is still there in his eyes. So I decide it's safe to respond.

"I can't stand her," I tell my teacher, honestly. "She's just regurgitating whatever she heard her dad say at the dinner table."

Mr. Abernathy nods, smiling again. "It's a bit much. I agree. Some kids get it… some kids don't." He purses his lips together briefly. "She doesn't."

And we both laugh.

This one of the reasons I like Mr. Abernathy. He treats the seniors in his government class like we're his equals. He doesn't hand out easy assignments, but he grades fairly. And he always encourages us to speak our minds; something that rarely happens at SCHS.

I also like the fact that he generally leaves me alone when it comes to classroom participation. He knows how much speaking in public freaks me out.

Mr. Abernathy studies me, a strange smile on his face. One that puts me on edge.

"Every year, I get kids like Cashmere and Gloss in here, thinking they have the whole world figured out. Usually they're the ones that have the most to learn."

I nod in agreement.

"Then I get kids like you that understand way more than they even know," he continues, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jaw.

His compliment makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Because I don't know what to do with praise like that. I offer him a slightly embarrassed smile before turning my attention to the carved initials in the desk.

"Thank you."

"I didn't keep you to shower you with compliments, though, kid. I have a proposition for you," he says as he leans back against the front of his desk and considers me carefully. When he sees the look of suspicion cross my face, he puts both hands up in protest. "Wait, now, hear me out."

I watch him warily. "What is it?"

"The Young Capitol Congress Games. It's a partnership with the state government and Panem University. It takes place over the month of July this summer, right on the PU campus. Kids from all the different school districts meet up to create a kind of model government. You write position papers, give speeches, debate issues and vote on them as a group. And each district is judged on its performance by real government officers."

I wrinkle my nose. "What's the point?"

"To give kids a taste of what _real_ government is like. Get first-hand experience. Meet some pretty important people - senators, representatives, government speech writers. A lot of them are willing to write letters of recommendation or even take on interns if they're impressed. It's a great way to get your foot in the door. Not many people get that kind of a chance."

It stings a little, hearing all this. Because while it sounds like a great opportunity, there's no point in me vying for anything he's mentioned if I'm not even going to go to college.

"And if you win, they offer you a full-ride scholarship to Panem University."

Well, that changes things.

I look at him carefully, trying to figure out how much he knows. I'm sure he, like many of my other teachers, have figured out that the Everdeens aren't exactly well off. I've carried the same tattered backpack for four years. I wear second-hand clothes, and I kept taking the bus home from school even after everyone else in my grade started driving.

Has he somehow figured out that I've been thinking about not going to college at all? Is that why he's asking?

I don't know how he could. But he must have. Otherwise, why of all the kids in my grade would he pick _me_?

"Let me be clear, Katniss. I really think you could."

"I could what?"

"Win."

"Why?"

He smiles, then, tapping his fingers absently on his desk. "That opinion paper you wrote on mental health care in low-income communities was the best in your year. If I'm being honest, I think you have a better grasp on the complexities of these types of issues than just about anyone your age I've ever met. You could have a real future with this sort of stuff. And the Games could help you get that future started."

It's so much to take in, that I find myself just staring at him for several moments.

The competition is obviously an incredible opportunity. One I'd be crazy to pass up.

But also one that I'm not well suited for at all. There's the speech thing, of course. And the fact that I have no actual experience in student government or anything like that. I'd likely just go and make a fool of myself.

"Why haven't I ever heard about this before?"

He shrugs back at me. "Some school districts take it more seriously than others. Send their best and brightest every year. They almost always end up winning, too. We're lucky to scrape up a passable entry most years. The school board, Principal Undersee… it's just not on their priority list."

"Has anyone from here ever won before?"

Mr. Abernathy nods curtly, the tone when he answers making it clear that he doesn't want to dwell on the past. "Once or twice. It's been a while, though."

He gets up, then, moving to rifle through his drawers until he pulls out a packet about the program and hands it to me.

I recline in the desk, the hard wood of the chair shockingly cool against my back, and flip through the glossy pages. Teenagers my age standing at podiums, wearing smart suits and colorful badges with the numbers 1-12 on them. They look studious, serious, capable.

My teacher must see the uncertainty in my eyes as I peruse the literature; must have put together by now how ill prepared I am for something like this, no matter how good of an opportunity he thinks it is.

Because when he speaks to me again, his voice is gentler - kind, and encouraging, and completely lacking in his usual dryness.

"I wouldn't be asking you to volunteer for this if I didn't think you stood a chance."

I sit back, then, and consider him for a moment. Mr. Abernathy is a lot of things. He can be gruff and unpleasant, and if the rumors are right, he's probably hung over at least half the days he shows up to teach. But I've never known him to be a liar.

And at this point, what other chance do I have at going to school in the fall?

"Okay," I tell him, my voice shaking only slightly. "I'll volunteer."

He nods brusquely, then, but I can see the hint of a smile on his face. "That's great. Let me get your paperwork. I already gave the boy his."

And just like that, a chilled sensation fills my belly. "Boy? What boy?"

Mr. Abernathy turns his head to look at me as he strides toward the other side of his desk.  
>"Oh, what's his name. The blonde kid from your class. The one who backed you up today."<p>

The chill turns to dread as I stare at my teacher, hoping the horror I feel isn't too obvious. "Peeta Mellark?"

He nods distractedly as he rifles through his desk. "Yeah, him."

_No_, I think. _Not him_.

* * *

><p>After my meeting with Mr. Abernathy, the last person in the world I want to see is Peeta Mellark.<p>

But over the next week, I can't escape him. The boy I've spent four years avoiding is _everywhere_.

He's in the hallway, standing by Delly Cartwright's locker, laughing with her and her friends as I make my way to my ecology class.

He's behind me in line when I pick up my graduation robe and honor cords, chatting casually with Thom Rowan.

He's at graduation, of course, smiling and waving out to his cheering family and friends as he accepts his diploma.

And when I look out over the sea of dark blue caps and gowns as I accept mine, it's his face I see. Watching me curiously.

When our eyes lock, he offers me a gentle smile.

I have to fight to keep from returning it. Because all I can think about when I see him is the debt I'll never be able to repay.

* * *

><p>"Katniss, you <em>have<em> to go."

The desperate quality in my little sister's voice isn't doing anything to help the headache I've had since I returned from my shift at Sae's. But she knows what she's doing - that I can never say no to her.

I've spent the last two weeks being angry at myself for so rashly accepting Mr. A's offer, without even thinking about what I'll be leaving behind.

Prim, my 14-year-old sister who relies on me for the support and love and guidance that's been so hard to come by these last few years.

My mother, who's only a year sober, and who works way too much to _be_ a mother. Or maybe she's just forgotten how.

It's foolish, to leave them for a whole month without the extra income I bring in from my part-time jobs at Sae's and the movie theater. No, worse than foolish. It's _selfish_.

Even if Prim insists it's not.

"It's a bad idea, Prim," I tell her, rubbing my temples. We're both sitting on my twin bed in the small bedroom we share. My suitcase - a worn, ancient looking thing that we inherited when my grandmother died - is perched, open and empty, at the other end.

"It's a _great_ idea, and you're stupid not to see that," she answers, a grim expression on her face. "Are you crazy?"

"No. I'm practical," I tell her evenly, matching her determined stare. "I won't win. So the best I can hope for is not to completely embarrass myself. And meanwhile, I'm leaving you here alone."

Prim shakes her head vehemently, making her soft blonde ponytail bobble. "I'm not going to be alone. Gale and Rory are right across the street. I can babysit now, and make at least as much as you do. I'll be _fine_."

She's smiling triumphantly when she finishes, because she knows she's got me. Dismantled any arguments I could make over why I should stay home.

"There's no good reason for you not to go," she finishes, punching her index finger into my bedspread to emphasize her point.

"What about the fact that I'll miss you like crazy?" I ask.

She smiles playfully at me. "Well you're going to have to get used to that, anyway, since you'll be going to college with that fancy scholarship and all."

God, yeah, I'm going to miss her.

With a playful grin, I pull my sister in for a hug, ruffling her hair slightly as she rests her head in my lap.

"So you're gonna go then?" She asks hopefully, looking up at me with her big blue eyes.

"I'm gonna go," I groan reluctantly.

My little sister claps happily, and in that moment, she looks younger, even, than her 14 years on earth would account for. I narrow my gaze at her, fighting to keep the smile off my face.

"But I'm not gonna like it."

* * *

><p>So I pack. I put in my notice at both my part-time jobs. And I try not to think about the fact that I'll be in close proximity to Peeta in just a matter of days.<p>

The less I want to think about it, the more I do. And why I'm so nervous about being around him in the first place.

I think about it all the time.

It was during the worst time. Just a few months after Dad died of a heart attack at just 38 years old. Before he was gone, we barely got by. And after, it quickly became apparent that we'd have next to nothing once the small life insurance payout we got after his death ran out.

Mom started drinking two weeks after the funeral. And she didn't stop for almost three years.

Eventually, I got used to it. Learned how to live around it - how to keep our small family going without her.

But in the first few months, it was _bad_.

_That_ day, the one I think about all the time, was Prim's tenth birthday. We woke up to pouring rain and our mother passed out on the couch.

I tried to do the best with what we had. Carefully wrapped the coloring books and bright gel pens I'd bought with my meager allowance savings. Sang songs, and ticked her until her mood brightened.

Mom stumbled off the couch and into our tiny apartment kitchen a little past noon. And when she came out a few minutes later, she insisted we go to the store and get a cake.

I wanted to tell her no. Because I could tell, from my mother's unsteady gait that she'd probably already started drinking.

But Prim's eyes had lit up so bright at the suggestion, I didn't have the heart to tell her no.

Mom disappeared into her room while I bundled Prim in a poncho. And I tried to ignore the scent of liquor on her breath when she wandered back out ten minutes later. Because it was Prim's birthday. And she deserved a cake. How much trouble could we get into?

The three of us walked the few blocks from our dingy downtown apartment to the small cluster of shops nearby, and stopped in front of the large brick building on the corner of Lawrence and Collins.

Mellark's Bakery. It looked especially warm through the storefront window, as we stood huddled under a single umbrella in the freezing rain.

I felt a twist of dread in my stomach when we walked inside and saw Mrs. Mellark standing behind the counter. Because the few times I'd been around her - when Dad brought us in for a special treat - she'd been cross at best, and downright surly at worst. And I couldn't imagine she'd be thrilled to have the Everdeen clan dripping all over her shiny floor.

The sour expression that crossed the aging woman's face when she saw us only confirmed my fears. But between Prim's excitement and my mother's drunken haze, I was the only one that noticed.

"Oooh, look at that one," Prim squealed, running up to the large glass display counter and pointing a still-damp finger at a bright yellow cake.

Mrs. Mellark peered at us, wiping her hands down on her gingham apron and smoothing back her graying blonde hair. Her narrow nostrils flared when she saw the fingerprints my little sister left behind.

"Can I help you?" She finally addressed us, the disdain clear in her tone.

"We're looking for a birthday cake," I answered quickly, before my mother had a chance to. But she piped up anyway.

"The best one you got," she informed Mrs. Mellark.

Mrs. Mellark raised an eyebrow. "I'll see what I can find in the back."

"What a bitch," Mom muttered as she watched the owner disappear between a set of swinging wooden doors behind the counter. She then barked out a laugh, inappropriately loud, that made the other customers in the store shoot her a wary glance.

My heart was already racing as I turned to face my mother.

"Mom," I said in a hushed voice. "Please, just let me deal with this, okay? Why don't you go sit down with Prim?"

But she just shook her head, assuring me she could handle Mrs. Mellark - that they went "way back" and she "knew how to handle her."

When she returned a few minutes later with a small, pink frosted cake, my mother scoffed.

"What's _that_?"

Mrs. Mellark stared my mother down. "It's a cake, Mrs. Everdeen. One that I thought would fit your budget."

I wanted to cringe. To grab my sister's hand and run. Because I knew Mrs. Mellark had started something that I wouldn't be able to stop.

My mother sputtered at the baker's wife's response. "Excuse me?"

I could see the spark in Mrs. Mellark's eye. The one that looked a little bit like pleasure. The one that showed she'd earned the exact reaction she'd been looking for.

"If you'd like, I can look again to see if we have anything a bit smaller."

My mother took a wavering step toward the counter, clutching her hands in tight fists. She was starting to turn red. "How dare you."

This time, both Mrs. Mellark's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Do we have a problem, Mrs. Everdeen?"

I took a deep breath. Mom's face was starting to turn red from the alcohol-fueled anger. "Yes we _do_, Mrs. Mellark," she answered, a barely noticeable slur driving the words out of her mouth. "It's my Primmy's birthday. She deserves the best cake you have."

By now, all attention was on the exchange. I watched nervously as my mother reared back on her heels and glared at the other woman.

"I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice, ma'am. You're startling the other customers."

This only made my mother more indignant. And when she answered, it was with a yell.

"I will not."

If I hadn't been so concerned with my mother's behavior, I would have been angry at Mrs. Mellark. For how satisfied she looked about the entire situation. I'd always gotten the feeling that she looked down on the poorer people in Seam County. But to see her holier-than-thou attitude so brazenly on display was still disturbing.

The older woman sneered at Mom, then, clicking her tongue. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave. We don't tolerate this kind of unruly behavior in our establishment."

In that moment, I chanced a glance at Prim, who stood, lip quivering, clutching at my mother's hip. And if I didn't feel sick before then, I could barely contain the nervous nausea I felt when her terrified eyes met mine.

"_Establishment_," my mother mocked back at her. "This place is a dump. A fucking dump."

"Mom," I warned. But it was too late. Whatever piece of sobriety, of decency, she'd been clinging to since we walked in the door had evaporated. And the monster version of my mother - the one who said and did things she barely remembered the next day - was there in her place.

"We don't need your fucking cake," Mom barked at Mrs. Mellark, grasping at the small desert she'd brought out. "Probably trying to poison us anyway."

And with that, she took the pink cake - Prim's birthday treat - and threw it with full force onto the glistening tiles, smashing the glass platter that held it in the process.

It all happened at once. Prim burst into tears, and I rushed to comfort her. My mother took a step closer to the counter, as though she was challenging Mrs. Mellark. The handful of customers that had stayed behind to watch the scene unfold quickly left - obviously now concerned for their own safety after seeing what my mother was capable of in her unstable anger.

Mrs. Mellark never took her eyes off Mom, a strange smile on her face, as she reached for the phone next to the cash register and picked up the receiver, dialing quickly.

"Hello, yes? This is Malena Mellark. I'd like to report an incident at my business."

Once my mother realized she was calling the police, her demeanor changed. She started shaking, and turned to me and my sister, a look of unmanageable distress on her face.

"Oh god, baby," she murmured, grasping at my wrist. "They're gonna take you away from me."

A part of me - the part that felt like she was going to pass out from the combination of stress and anger threatening to strangle me from the inside - almost hoped she was right.

My mother wanted to run. But I reminded her that Mrs. Mellark knew who she was, and the police would eventually end up at our door anyway.

So we sat at one of the cafe tables and waited.

Mrs. Mellark went into the back again - probably to gloat to her husband about what had happened. And I was grateful to be free of her hateful gaze for a moment. So when I heard the wooden doors swinging open a few minutes later, dread filled me again.

Until I saw who had come out from the back.

Peeta Mellark. The blonde boy from my grade. The one that made varsity wrestling as a freshman. The one who seemed to have escaped the asshole stereotype most of his popular friends fell into.

He walked purposefully as he made his way out from behind the counter, his bright blue eyes fixing on me for only a second, carrying two large latte cups in his hands. As soon as he reached us, he set one down in front of Mom.

"Drink this," he told her quietly. "Quickly."

My mother took the mug in both shaking hands and sipped it, looking every bit as confused as I felt.

Then he handed the other to Prim.

"It's hot chocolate," he told me, as I watched him warily. Then he turned his attention to my sister, a kind smile on his lips. "Happy birthday."

She sniffled and smiled back at him.

Peeta looked back to me and my mother, then, serious and entirely focused, as he spoke quickly. "The police are going to be here in a second. My dad is trying to keep my mom back there. Just… just let me talk to them, okay? Don't tell them anything. Don't _say_ anything unless you have to. And then just repeat whatever I say." He took a deep breath, then, gently touching my mother's shoulder. "Can you do that?"

She barely had time to nod before I heard the front door behind us open and the soft jingling of the bell attached to it.

Peeta was up and across the room, greeting the uniformed man and woman with a friendly smile. It was clear, from the way the man greeted Peeta and asked about his latest wrestling match, that they knew each other.

"Darius, there's been a huge mistake," Peeta said, his tone convincingly apologetic. "I was ringing up Mrs. Everdeen, and she accidentally dropped the cake she was purchasing. My mother heard it, and came out, and… well, you know Mom. She kind of freaked out."

Darius shot his partner a look.

"Mrs. Mellark told us that Mrs. Everdeen was being belligerent," Darius said to Peeta.

Peeta answered with a wry smile. "She got upset when the cake dropped. It was loud. It spooked me a little, too. Mom was honestly overreacting."

Darius and his partner both approached my mother, Prim and I, then.

"Mrs. Everdeen, good afternoon," he said, his voice low but non-threatening. "Can you please tell me what happened?"

I looked at my mother, trying to keep my face neutral, hoping to higher powers I didn't even believe in that she had her senses about her enough to follow Peeta's lead.

"I dropped the cake," she murmured into her coffee cup. "I'm sorry for all the trouble."

Darius then turned to me, his brown eyes taking on a stern quality as he considered me. "Is that how you remember it?"

I nodded, swallowing. "Just a mistake. We're really sorry. We'll… we'll pay for the platter and the cake."

Peeta approached us, then, his hands in his pockets. "Can I get you guys anything before you go? Maybe some cookies for Niall, Purnia?"

And like that, it was over. Peeta sent the officers on their way, a bag full of their favorite Mellark sweets for their trouble.

Then, he turned back to us, his expression grim. "You should go now. Before she comes back out front."

That night, after we put my mother to bed, I sat with Prim on the couch, drawing and playing card games, and doing all that I could to keep her spirits up after the debacle of a day.

When the doorbell rang around 9 PM, my heart dropped into my stomach. I was sure it was the police, come to charge my mother after all.

But no one was there. Just a large white box with the Mellark's Bakery insignia on the top.

When we opened the box, we found the yellow cake that Prim had eyed earlier that day.

The next day, walking down the hall, I overheard Peeta telling a group of friends that he'd gotten _into_ it with one of his brothers the night before. And I pretended not to notice his black eye.

I don't know how to describe the feelings that coursed through me as I sat in the girls' bathroom stall and tried to calm my breathing. Gratitude, and anger, and guilt. Overwhelming guilt.

We never talked about it - that day in the bakery. When he managed to keep my family together, maybe without even realizing it.

In fact, we've never talked at all after that.

If it weren't for the way I see him looking at me, I'd think none of it never happened. That it was a figment of my imagination.

Most days, it happens at least once. In the halls, or in class, or sometimes in the school parking lot as I trudge out to meet my bus. I catch his eyes on mine, full with a warm curiosity that I do my best to ignore.

Because since that day, I've done everything I can to avoid Peeta Mellark all together.

* * *

><p>"I never thought I'd say this, but I am <em>really<em> getting sick of popcorn."

Madge Undersee approaches me with a grin on her face, holding a Pepsi cup filled with the butter-slicked salty snack she's currently complaining about.

"Then why are you eating it?" I ask, pushing my dark hair back from my face as I lean against the concession counter.

"Free's free," she answers with a shrug, before popping a few more kernels in her mouth. Then she looks at me, a sad smile on her face. "I can't believe you're out of here tomorrow. What am I going to do here without you?"

"Work?" I answer. Madge makes a face in response, so I give her a wicked grin. "_Finally_ make a move on Gale Hawthorne?"

Madge tosses the rest of her popcorn at me as she shrieks in protest, looking desperately around to see if my neighbor and Seam 12's head usher - the one she's had a crush on for over a year - is within earshot.

We've worked here, the only movie theater in the county, since we were 16. And while at first, I was skeptical of the principal's beautiful daughter, over time I came to realize that her kindness and quiet intelligence were entirely genuine. We've formed a friendship over the past couple of years, one that I think I'll definitely miss when I'm away at the Capitol.

For a Sunday night, Seam 12 is dead. And Madge and I have spent most of my last shift battling each other on the various arcade games in the lobby. Whenever a patron _does_ wander in, we've taken to playing out a quick game of rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the easier job of ringing up their tickets.

When we see the small group of SCHS students streaming in through the front door, I'm too busy trying to weigh my odds if I play rock to notice who's amongst them.

But I see, when I slide into the ticket booth. And my heart drops into my stomach.

Peeta. Of course.

He's with Delly Cartwright, Thom Rowan and Lavinia Martin. They're laughing as they approach the ticket booth. But Peeta's face changes when he locks eyes with me. Turns from easygoing and relaxed to more alert and as the smile falls from his face.

"Oh, hey, Katniss," he says, his tone polite.

I nod curtly at him, folding my hands in front of me.

"Katniss, hi!" Delly says, brightly, waving at me. "You must be so excited about tomorrow! Peeta's told me so much about it. It sounds so _great_!"

I glance over at Peeta, who seems to be studiously avoiding my gaze.

"Yeah," I agree, as wholeheartedly as I can manage. "I think it will be… interesting."

She shrugs happily, but I can see the slight confusion on her face. Maybe because Delly isn't used to being around people who meet her enthusiasm with a muted response.

"You and Peeta are gonna make quite a team," Thom adds, winking at me. He then grins at Peeta, who glares back at him.

I can't think of a way that this could be more awkward. Me, talking with people I've barely ever talked to. One of whom I'd happily avoid for the rest of my life. The one I'll be spending every day with for the next month.

Peeta offers me a thin smile as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, then, stepping forward and handing me a $20.

"Can we get four tickets for _Love Notes_, please?" He asks, his tone cool.

I quickly print the tickets for him, handing them back with his change a moment later.

"Enjoy your show," I tell the group half-heartedly. Thom wraps an arm around Lavinia's waist, leading her toward Madge and the concession stand. And Delly follows closely behind, engrossed in something on her iPhone.

Peeta hangs back from the group, holding the small paper tickets in his hand and studying them carefully. He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it just as quickly.

And I realize it's the first time I've been in close proximity with Peeta since that day in the bakery.

"Did you need something?" I prompt, feeling increasingly unnerved as the silence stretches between us.

He glances up, his blue eyes locking on mine, and shakes his head. "No. I mean, not really. Are you taking the train tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I confirm, nodding once. "At 4."

"Me, too," he tells me. "I guess I'll see you then?"

"I guess."

With a nod in my direction and another polite smile, he wanders away toward his friends. And I'm left to stand in my confusion as to why Peeta was so… _cold_.

It makes no sense, why it would bother me so much. Still, I spend most of the next hour milling around the Seam 12 lobby, stewing over his frosty demeanor.

I mean, obviously I've never done anything to make him think we're friends. Hell, I've gone out of my way to make sure he knows we're _not_. But Peeta's senior superlative was "Friendliest." And less than a month ago, he was defending me in front of his friends in Mr. Abernathy's class.

And…

Well, maybe he forgot. Just because that day changed my life doesn't mean it had any impact on him. He deals with customers every day at the bakery. I'm sure he's had more than one run in with unreasonable people.

So there's no reason he should treat me like we're anything more than strangers.

Even though he's never looked at me like I'm one until tonight.

* * *

><p>Right around 10 PM, Gale wanders up to Madge and I, running a hand through his unruly black hair and complaining about a customer he's got on the phone. As a testament to how much my chilly encounter with Peeta got under my skin, I barely hear what he's says.<p>

"... she was in theater seven. She's freaking out, thinks she left her wallet there. Which one of you can I bribe to go hunt for it?"

Madge nudges me immediately, shooting a pointed glance in my direction. And though it takes me a second to realize that she's trying to get me to offer up my services so she can get a minute alone with Gale, I eventually catch on.

"I'll do it," I mumble, holding out my hand, palm open. Gale hands me his flashlight, and I take off toward the theater in question.

I enter the theater quietly, armed with only a handful of details about what I'm looking for. Tan wallet. Second or third row.

Since we've only had a handful of patrons tonight, I know the odds of me finding anyone in the theater are slim to none. But I try to be stealthy anyway - the last thing I need on my last night of work is someone complaining to our manager about the rude employee with the black braid.

I give what's meant to be a cursory glance into the seats, letting the flickering light from the movie screen help me make sure I'm alone. But my stomach bottoms out immediately when I realize I'm not. Somehow, the odds were against me tonight. Because not only did I walk into one of the only theaters with actual moviegoers. I walked into the theater where Peeta and his friends are currently sitting.

In the back rows.

_Seriously_ making out.

Thom and Lavinia are curled up together in the corner of the second-to-last row, deeply entangled as far as I can tell. But they barely make it onto my radar, because I'm unable to take my eyes off of their companions, who have taken up their own activities in the middle of the back row.

Peeta and Delly. I didn't even know they were _dating_. But from the looks of it, they know each other pretty intimately.

She's in his lap, her legs wound around his waist. And he's kissing her languidly, playfully, like he has all the time in the world.

Her hands slide down his sides before settling somewhere near his hips. She grins into his mouth before opening up to him, and I watch, transfixed, as he cups her jaw in both hands and tilts it up so he can deepen their kiss.

I've never been kissed the way he's kissing her. In fact, other than a few lousy, fumbled makeout sessions with Castor Ryzewicz in the eighth grade, I haven't really been kissed at all.

So it's fascinating, watching them. Well, him. The way his hands tangle in her dirty blonde hair. The way his eyes flutter slightly under his lids as he goes in for another kiss.

A part of me feels like I should be ashamed, but another one - the one that's spent most of the night with Peeta on my mind, anyway - is too curious to care.

That's why I stand rooted in place for at least five minutes, hidden behind the wall that separates the theater from the entry aisle, staring at Peeta Mellark's mouth, amazed by the things he's able to do with it.

It's not until I hear Madge's hushed whisper from the doorway that I come to my senses.

"Katniss! Did you find it?"

By then, it's too late. Because she's so loud, I'm sure everyone else heard it, too.

* * *

><p>The train that goes from Seam County to the state capitol is big, and sleek, and modern. Bigger, and sleeker, and more modern, anyway, than any form of transportation I've ever been on.<p>

When Mom and Prim drop me off at the station, I tell them they don't have to wait until it's time for me to board. Mom doesn't argue - she has a shift at the hospital in just under an hour, and, she tells me apologetically, she doesn't want to be late.

She hugs me, gently. Not squeezing too tight. And I give her the same amount of affection back.

"Be good, okay?" She says into my ear. "I'm proud of you."

_You should be_, I think. But it's not a time to be bitter. So I give her the best smile I can muster and thank her before I turn my attention to Prim.

She's trying to be brave. Sniffling only slightly as she holds her chin high and looks up at me, smiling. But I can see the tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. So I open my arms to her, and she falls into my embrace immediately.

"I'll call you every day," I promise, speaking softly so only she can hear me. "If it gets too hard, I'll come home."

She shakes her head against my chest, sniffling loudly. "You're not coming home until you win. And then you're only coming home to pack. Promise."

We pull back simultaneously to look at each other. And at once, she looks so childlike in her innocence and adult in her determination, that I can't do anything but agree.

"I promise," I say.

I watch them drive away, forcing myself not to cry, and already missing home.

And when the train pulls into the station a few minutes later, I'm grateful for the distraction. It gives me something to focus on - primarily, how to find a seat on the large vehicle where I _won't_ run in to Peeta Mellark.

Last night, I hid in the manager's station until I knew his movie had let out. I couldn't bear to face him, or Delly, knowing that they could think I'd been spying on them.

"You _were_ spying on them," Madge had reminded me. I gave her a middle finger in response.

Now I'm just hoping that I can avoid him entirely until we make it to the Capitol and get settled in to our dorm. Then, there will be so many people around, I won't have to worry about too much one-on-one interaction. At least, until it's time for us to pair up.

I'm planning on crossing that bridge when I come to it. But as soon as I settle into a cushy coach seat near the back of the train, the door that separates my compartment from the rest slides open, and Peeta strides through.

He looks comfortable and somehow collegiate in his threadbare SCHS wrestling hoodie and jeans. And he has an oversized duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

When he sees me, he smiles.

Weird, given how he treated me last night before the movie - and what happened _during_ it.

When he gets to the row of seats opposite mine, he stops.

"Hey," he greets me pleasantly. "Is this seat taken?"

It's a ridiculous question, since the entire car is empty. But I just shrug in response.

He throws his bag in the overhead compartment before sitting in the seat closest to the aisle.

I keep my eyes squarely on the terribly boring celebrity magazine that a previous passenger left. But all of my focus is directed on him. I watch, out of the corner of my eye, as he settled into his seat, attaching a pair of earbuds to his iPhone and staring at the device for a few moments.

He never puts the earbuds in his ears, though.

Bad news for me.

The silence between us is tense - full of the weight of pleasant words that normal people would speak to each other in this kind of situation. But I'm not normal. I'm the weird girl who avoids the boy who saved her for four years, and then watches him like a stalker while he kisses another girl.

The silence between us just gets more tense.

Until a few minutes later, he clears his throat. And I decide that awkward conversation is a better alternative than the continued terrible awkward silence. Especially since we're about to endure a five hour train trip together.

So I look over at him. He catches my gaze, and gives me an apprehensive smile. I can't tell if it's because he's nervous about the trip, or about me having seen him last night, or something else entirely.

He speaks first.

"So, the Capitol Games. Are you excited?"

I have to consider his question. Up until this point, I've been so preoccupied with reconciling the fact that I'm actually _doing _this. I haven't had a chance to decide how I feel about it now that it's actually happening.

"I guess," I tell him eventually. "Are you?"

He gives me a half-hearted shrug. "Mostly. A little nervous. There's a lot on the line, you know?"

I nod. I _do_ know. If only _he_ knew how much was on the line for me. Like my entire college future.

"I've never done anything like this," he confides.

"What about student council?" I counter, remembering how easily he won his seat all four years of high school.

He smirks slightly. "That's different. It's basically just a popularity contest. It has nothing to do with how qualified you are."

I nod at that, suddenly wishing Gale and Madge were here with me. Because they've said as much, many times before.

"Yeah, I guess it's different," I admit. "I don't even have that going for me, though. I'm not even sure why I'm doing this."

Peeta considers me for a second, a pensive, almost amused look on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing," he answers smoothly, shrugging into a friendly smile. "Just… don't sell yourself short. If I'd had to pick anyone from our school to go to this and win, it would be you."

It's such a baffling statement - yet another item to add to the growing list of things I don't understand about Peeta Mellark.

"How can you even say that?" I scoff.

He takes a moment again before responding. "Instinct, I guess."

That word - _instinct_ - makes me shiver. I remember how he just knew what to do in the bakery years ago; how he seemed to know exactly what to do to Delly to make her murmur against his mouth in delight.

If there's anyone on this train with good instincts, it's Peeta.

So what does that say about me and my chances?

"You think we can win this?" He asks, when it's clear I'm not going to let the topic of my qualifications go any further.

I shake my head instantly. "Probably not."

He laughs in response - a low, throaty sound that fills the car. "C'mon, Katniss. Have a little faith."

"Haymitch told me all about the other school districts," I tell him plainly. "How they train their kids all year to get ready for this. How they almost always win."

"Yeah, I know, he told me, too. But what's the saying? '_It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.'_"

I have to mentally check myself to make sure my mouth isn't gaping open as I stare back at him. "Did you just quote _To Kill a Mockingbird_?"

He gives me another smile - the biggest one yet. "It's my favorite book."

"Mine too," I admit.

"Then I'm suddenly feeling way better about this whole teammate thing."

I don't know how to tell him I am, too. So I just watch him, carefully, as he glances down at his phone and quickly types something into it.

A message to Delly, maybe? _Katniss isn't such a psycho after all_?

Before I can think of something else to say to him, the train jolts once before beginning a slow pace forward.

Peeta turns his attention back to me, his blue eyes just a little bit wider than they were before.

"Well," he tells me. "Here we go."

- end chapter one -


	2. Chapter 2

I've thought about going to college more than I'd ever admit to anyone. Especially in the last year or so. When I sat down with my advisor for a mandated one hour senior meeting, she praised my grades.

"Especially," she'd said, peering down her long, straight nose at me, "In light of your… difficult family situation."

It wasn't a secret to anyone, my mother's drinking habit or the financial troubles that plagued my family after my Dad died. That no one ever stepped in to do anything never bothered me that much, since I didn't think it was anyone's business. But hearing her allude to the rumors that I'd heard murmured in my wake for years, I felt my blood boil.

Then she'd handed me a large, glossy folder, over-filled with colorful college admissions brochures.

"You should really think about applying, Katniss," she'd said.

And even though I didn't want to think about it, I did.

I thought about what it would mean for my family, if I got a college degree. What it might mean for my job prospects in the future. What it would mean to Prim to watch me succeed.

I never actually considered what it would be like to _be_ on a college campus. Which is why I'm completely blown away by how, well, overwhelming it is.

Panem University stands in complete contrast to Seam County, which has a smattering of foliage, but is for the most part a desolate, grey-looking town with industrial towers and outdated storefronts.

It's lush, surrounded by thick patches of trees that seem almost _too_ green, _too_ alive, as Peeta and I make our way across the large campus. Wide, perfectly paved sidewalks weave between monolithic lecture halls. They look like something out of a movie about world-changing scholars with red-brick walls and large windows, and ancient ivy cascading down the sides of the buildings.

"I think that's where we'll be for the Games," Peeta says, pausing to hoist his large duffle bag up onto his shoulder. He's pointing to a particularly imposing building several hundred feet in the distance. And I can't help but hold my breath as I stare at it.

It seems larger than life - red brick, like so many others, but with a large, gleaming white bell tower pushing out from the center, forcing your attention to it. There's a long, wide stone staircase leading to the entrance, which is flanked by the grey pillars holding up the long, shingled roof. And then, there are the tall, heavy wooden double doors that lead inside. I get a chill in my spine just looking at it, knowing how important the hours I spend in that building will be.

"Snow Hall," I murmur, my eyes flicking over the marble sign that stands before the building.

"Named after PU's first president," Peeta says quietly. He's now standing next to me, staring at the building with a somber, almost reverent expression.

We stay there for just a second, taking in Snow Hall, and the other buildings nearby. I wonder if Peeta feels as overwhelmed as I do by all of this.

Probably not. If I had to guess, I'd say he's known he'd end up here since he was a little boy. The years he spent at SCHS were just leading to the inevitable moment when he'd stand in the middle of this campus as a student.

"We should go," I remind him, shifting my overstuffed backpack from one shoulder to the other. "We need to check in."

After one last look at the Games site, Peeta nods in agreement, and follows me.

It only takes us another five minutes to make it to Miner Hall, the dormitory we've been assigned to. And it's just as impressive as the rest of the buildings we've passed. Tall, and long, dark brick intersecting with clear, big windows, one for each bedroom.

Peeta and I enter the lobby together, and I can't help but take stock of the sight before me. A few people, all roughly my age, mill about - a tall, lithe blonde girl who looks like she learned how to walk on a fashion runway; a wiry young man with dark skin and thick glasses, perusing a large white cork board plastered with flyers; a short redhead, whose eyes are darting nervously about the room, taking everything in. I have to assume these people will be my competitors. And already, I feel less at ease, as the reality that this is really happening sets in. So I force myself to turn my attention away from the people, and focus on my surroundings instead.

The lobby feels strangely modern compared to the traditional aesthetic of the building's exterior. It's all glass - floor to ceiling windows that expose a cluster of grey and black divan sofas and their corresponding metallic coffee tables to the day's bright sunlight. High ceilings and shiny ceramic floors give the entire space an open, endless feeling. Behind a large reception desk, which is a complete circle, obsidian but otherwise relatively nondescript, there's a full wall of square mailboxes. One for each student, I'd guess. We won't be using those. We're only visitors here.

Peeta and I approach the reception desk, and a lovely girl with a dark bun perched carefully atop her head offers us a cool smile.

"Welcome to Panem University," she says, her eyes lingering on Peeta just a bit longer than they do on me.

She finds our names on the list she has in front of her, and has us sign our names to verify that we're here. Then, she takes us over to the wall with the mailboxes and takes a photo of each of us.

"For your identification badges," she explains as I back myself up against the cool metal boxes. I don't bother to smile when she lifts the expensive digital camera to her eye. She doesn't bother to tell me to, either.

Then, she tells us our room numbers - 611 and 612 - and points us toward the elevator bank down a narrow hallway to our left.

The elevator ride is short, and silent - much like most of the train ride, once we left the station. That was mostly okay, then - we were both content to stare out our windows at the changing landscape. But somehow, being in this enclosed space - just the two of us - makes me way more aware of our apparent inability to communicate.

I glance over at Peeta just before the elevator bell dings, signaling our arrival on the sixth floor. He offers me a quick, gentle smile. And while he seemed so confident down in the lobby, talking easily to the receptionist as she checked us in, I can see a hint of uncertainty in his gaze.

"You ready?"

I shrug in response. "Does it matter?"

But before Peeta can answer, the elevator doors slide open and we're greeted with the overwhelming sound of music blasting, so loudly that it seems to be shaking the walls.

We step off the elevator and turn to the right.

The narrow hallway stretches a decent distance and feels similar to the lobby - same ceramic tile floor, same stucco white walls. But instead of windows, there are large, honey-wooden doors every few feet, labeled with numbers - odd on one side, even on the other.

The booming music is coming from 601. And, as we walk down the hall, I get close enough to decipher, between the bass and the shrill guitar that makes my ears ache, that it's country music.

Peeta and I pass the door - it's open, and I get just a glimpse of the person inside. Tall, hulking, as blonde as Peeta - the young man looks way too old to be a recently-graduated senior. He's aggressively rifling through his suitcase, open on the floor, and singing along - loudly and offkey - to the song he's subjecting everyone else to.

"Barbecue stain on my white t-shirt…"

Ugh. I decide that no matter what else I learn about the guy from 601, the chances of me having _anything_ in common with him are slim to none.

Almost as if he's reading my mind, Peeta leans down to murmur in my ear. "Did I mention how much I hate country music?"

I catch his eye for just a second. The nervousness I saw there a few moments ago has been replaced by a spark of amusement. Maybe because he's noticed the scowl on my face.

I have to look away, though. Because something about having him in such close proximity - seeing the speckles of brown in his blue eyes, being able to feel his breath, warm and steady, on my cheek, gives me a sudden rush of warmth in my stomach.

"Yeah," I say, shifting my focus toward the end of the hallway. "Me too."

"Thank God," he mutters. "We can still be friends."

There's that warmth again. What's _wrong_ with me?

We keep walking.

Most of the other doors are open, too. And it seems strange to me, giving total strangers open access to your personal space.

But it does give us a few more chances to see the other people in the Games. I see the redhead from the lobby in room 606, sitting on a futon and looking through a large white binder. And in 609, there's an attractive guy, who looks like he might be Hispanic, laughing loudly as he talks to someone on his cell phone.

"What's your roommate's name?" Peeta asks, as we approach the end of the hall.

I glance down at the paperwork I got down in the lobby. "Uh, Rue. Wilson. You?"

Peeta quickly checks his own sheet. "Thresh Carter."

Rue and Thresh. They _sound_ like nice enough names.

Before long, Peeta and I find ourselves in front of our own doors - and I get a sinking feeling when I see that my door - 612 - is also open.

We stop, and then turn to face each other.

"Well," Peeta tells me, tilting his head back toward his room. "This is the end of the line."

I nod, and turn toward my own room. "I guess I'll see you later, then."

Peeta glances down at his sheet again. "Yeah, looks like we have a welcome dinner at 6:00."

Another surge of dread pulses through me. Welcome dinner? Already?

"Great," I say, even though my tone suggests that I think it's anything but.

Peeta swallows then and shrugs. "You wanna walk down together? District solidarity and all?"

I hesitate before answering. On the one hand, I don't know if that's the best way to play this, from a strategy point of view. Before I left, Haymitch and I had a couple of conversations over the phone. And he tried to give me as many pieces of advice as he could - how to behave when I first got here, and what I should expect to encounter. I remember, specifically, that he told me this welcome dinner was the best opportunity to meet as many of our competitors as possible. And I might be limiting myself if I stick by Peeta's side.

Still, on the other hand, I can't deny that having at least one familiar face with me will make me feel at least a little bit more at ease.

"Sure," I agree, before I can change my mind.

We decide to meet at quarter to. And then, with an awkward wave, I turn away from Peeta and toward my bedroom, taking a deep breath.

Then I walk inside.

It's surprisingly small, given how prestigious Panem University is. I guess even big-name universities don't feel the need to pack as many students as they can in.

There's a pale yellow tile, not quite as fancy as the one outside, but still nicer than our dingy apartment carpet. Two beds are lofted on sturdy looking dark-wood beams. Under one bed, there's a dresser and two desks, identical to the material of the bed frames. Under the other is a small mini-refrigerator and a surprisingly nice looking futon.

And on the futon is a girl, who, in contrast to the boy in 601 looks entirely too_ young_ to be here. She's diminutive, with dark skin and hair that cascades to her chin in tight ringlets. Her eyes are big and brown and curious. And when she sees me, she smiles.

"Are you Katniss?"

I don't know what it is about this girl that makes me smile back at her, when I often feel so guarded. Maybe it's how youthful she seems - the first unjaded face I've seen since I set foot on PU's campus.

Maybe it's that her bright, toothy smile reminds me just a little bit of Prim's.

"Hi," I tell her. "You must be Rue."

We shake hands. Then she eyes our bedroom door and raises her eyebrows nervously.

"Do you want to keep that open?"

I glance behind me, at the wide open door. I can see across the hall - Peeta's door isn't entirely open, though I can see it's a little bit ajar.

"No," I tell her, shaking my head vehemently. "I definitely don't want it open."

She sighs, relieved, clasping her hands together, as I move to shut the door behind me.

"I'm so glad you said that," She breathes. "I left it open for you - and because everyone else did - but I don't really love the idea of anyone being able to walk in here, you know, whenever."

I grin at her, then, leaning against one of the desks. "Did you hear the guy's music at the end of the hall?"

She rolls her eyes. "Hear it? I think I felt it buzzing in my chest it was so loud. Country music, too. Ugh."

And just like that, I decide that I'm not going to mind this roommate thing so much, after all.

* * *

><p>"You sure you don't want to walk down with me?"<p>

Rue's standing before me, nervously flattening down her dark blue wool skirt, tapping one foot nervously against the doorframe.

I look at my watch. 5:40. We're supposed to be down in the lobby in 20 minutes, according to our itinerary. Then, as a group, all 24 of the Capitol Games candidates will walk over to Snow Hall for the opening reception.

I feel bad, telling her no. Because over the past couple of hours, as we've unpacked our things and set up our room, I've gotten to know Rue pretty well. And I genuinely like her.

I learned that she comes from Mill County, which isn't that far away from where we live. She's so tiny because she's a junior _and_ she skipped seventh grade. She's bright, and sweet, and funny. She's terrified to be here, just like me.

But she's also very eager. She knows what a big opportunity this is, and she doesn't want to waste a minute getting to know people. That's why she wants to head down early - introduce herself to some of the facilitators that will be walking us over.

I, on the other hand, promised Peeta I'd walk down with him. And even though I already feel more comfortable around Rue, despite having known her a fraction of the time I've known him, I do feel like I should keep my word.

"No, I think I'm going to change my stockings," I tell her, reaching for any excuse I can find so she won't feel like I'm blowing her off. "These feel a little too scratchy."

She nods, eyeing me like she doesn't totally believe me. "Okay. Don't wait too long, though. You don't want to be late. I'll see you down there?"

I nod emphatically, giving her the biggest smile I can manage. "Definitely."

Ten minutes later, I'm standing in front of the mirror, relieved that I don't look quite as awkward as I feel. The grey wool dress I'm wearing isn't something I would have chosen for myself, but I can't deny that it makes me look mature and professional.

Before I left for Panem University, I confessed to Madge that I was nervous about the required attire. The Games provide the official uniform we'll wear for the sessions - a blazer and slacks or skirt, depending on preference and gender. But there are several events, including tonight's, that are listed as "professional attire only."

I've never owned a professional outfit in my life. I went to my interviews at Sae's and the movie theater in the least-ratty pair of jeans I own, and a button up shirt I dug out of my mother's closet.

Madge snapped into action, raiding her closet and pulling out dozens of outfits that she assured me would fit the bill.

I refused to take more than I knew I would wear. But I still came to campus with seven of Madge's nicest dresses, four pairs of her shoes and a terrible inkling in the back of my head like I owe her more than I can ever repay.

I finish tying my hair back into a neat braid, and then slip on s pair of black patent leather heels.

And I guess I'm ready to go.

No, that's a lie. I'm not ready in the slightest. But there's no point in hiding in my room. That will only give the other competitors an advantage; a reason to judge me as weak right out of the gate.

So I close our dorm room door behind me, and walk the few steps across the hall until I'm standing in front of Peeta's door. After knocking once, I wait a few seconds, assuming Peeta will call for me to come in. He doesn't.

So I knock again.

"Peeta?" My voice is hesitant, and I listen intently for some sign of life coming from inside the room.

Still nothing.

I furrow my brow and glance down at my wrist watch. It's 5:50 exactly - five minutes after we said we'd meet. Did he forget? Ditch me to head down to the dinner with Thresh?

A fleeting sense of panic bubbles up into my chest. I'm having a hard enough time rallying myself to go down to this thing as it is. As stupidly weak as it sounds, I was really relying on having Peeta by my side.

Before I can convince myself it's a bad idea, I wrap my hand around the doorknob and give it a twist. It's unlocked, and the door pushes open easily, revealing the small room on the other side. It looks just like the one I share with Rue - lofted beds, nondescript tan carpet, Peeta Mellark wearing nothing but a towel hung loosely around his waist as he rifles through the large dresser drawer.

Okay, not exactly like my room.

If I weren't so busy staring at the way the slim line of his waist curves perfectly into his hip - or the droplets of water still gathered in the small of his back - I'd like to think I'd have the presence of mind to avert my eyes, or maybe run back to my room. Instead, I stand, eyes fixed on him, every bit aware of his every move as he is oblivious to my presence.

As if there couldn't be anything more awkward than walking in on your teammate when they're half-dressed, now I have to announce my presence. "Hey, I'm here, and I now know way more about your body than I ever expected to."

Like how strong he looks - from four years on the wrestling team, no doubt. But still. I associate wrestling with bulky bodies, not the toned stomach muscles and broad shoulders on display before me.

And how there's a hint of hair growing on his chest - another sign of impending adulthood, one that draws my focus and won't give it back.

I wonder, briefly, if Delly has seen him like this. And then, as my cheeks heat and I remember the way he kissed her yesterday, I feel a tremendous surge of guilt for standing here and gaping at her boyfriend without his consent.

And what the hell is wrong with me?! This is the second time in two days I've found myself completely immobilized at the sight of Peeta. Like I didn't spend nearly a quarter of my life actively avoiding him. Like I'm actually interested in who he is or what he looks like.

I frown, clenching my fists together, and turn away from his room on my heel, stalking down the hall. And before I can stop myself to remember that I _did_ promise to wait for him, I'm in the elevator and heading down to the lobby.

_It doesn't matter_, I tell myself, trying to believe the words as I chant them in my head as a mantra. I don't need Peeta Mellark to do this, anyway.

* * *

><p>The lobby is crowded. Too crowded for my liking. And I realize, instantly, how truly out of my element I am.<p>

Between the candidates themselves and the event facilitators, there are probably more than 50 people standing around - dressed impeccably, chatting congenially. I scan the crowd, desperately looking for Rue, but most of the other young adults are a good head taller than her or more, so I struggle to find her.

When I finally do, I make a beeline toward my roommate, and stop when I reach her, standing with a two other girls. One is the redhaired girl I've already seen twice before. She looks lovely in a dark green blouse with a ruffled front and a black tea skirt. Then there's the blonde I saw in the lobby - the one who looks like a fashion model. She looks every bit as stunning as she did when I saw her before, her blonde hair falling in gentle waves down her shoulders. And she's dressed to grab attention, in a bright red short-sleeved blouse with a plunging neckline and a form-fitting, high-waisted pencil skirt.

"Oh great, you made it," Rue says, beckoning me over to her new acquaintances. The redhead smiles at me. The blonde raises an eyebrow and offers me a greeting that looks more like a tight-lipped smirk.

"Glimmer," she says, holding out a dainty hand.

"Katniss," I reply, keeping my tone neutral as I give hers a perfunctory shake.

"So, Katniss, you're Rue's roommate?" The redhead asks, and her voice is quiet and steady.

I nod politely, giving Rue a small smile.

"So then you must be from 12," Glimmer says, the smirk still plastered on her face.

I nod again. In an attempt to keep judging during the competition neutral and avoid accusations of home-team favoritism, each team is given a "number" that disassociates it from the area they came from. Each team is given a number, one through twelve. Of course, I can already tell that the system is flawed. Just glancing around the room, it's easy to guess which candidates are from more affluent counties - Glimmer included - and which may be more middle class, like Rue and myself.

"I must be," I say, forcing myself to keep my gaze locked on her. I don't know that much about my strategy yet, but I know I don't want this girl to think she's gotten under my skin.

"I'm from one," she coos, as though it's an accomplishment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Rue bow her head just for a moment to hide the smile that's crept onto her face.

I try to think of something to say back to her - something that will let her know I'm not particularly impressed with her origins. But before I can sarcastically congratulate Glimmer, she emits a strangled sort-of noise.

I watch her Glimmer stare greedily at someone standing behind me. She's all bedroom eyes, biting her lower lip like she can barely contain herself. I've seen other girls do that - I think maybe they must have learned on some blog or teen TV show that it's the international symbol for "I'm totally down for hooking up."

But when I turn to see who her current object of affection is, I find myself momentarily short of breath. Because she's staring at Peeta, who's joined the group in the lobby - and she's with good reason.

Unlike many of the other male students, who look somewhat dwarfed in their not-quite-tailored suit coats, Peeta fills out the dark blue blazer perfectly. He's wearing a bright white shirt and a skinny black tie that seem made for him. And the pants - dark blue, too, to match the coat - as tailored to perfectly, hinting at the strong leg muscles and slim hips that I now know are hiding underneath.

It's hard to miss how much brighter the dark color of his suit makes his blue eyes look when he fixes them on me and offers a subdued but friendly smile.

I smile back, feeling ashamed - both for ditching him upstairs, and for thinking about what he looks like underneath his impeccable outfit.

I wonder, for a second, if I'm _ever_ going to be able to look at him without thinking about that.

"Who is _that_?" Glimmer asks breathily, as I turn back to the group. And I can't help but give her a smug smile as I take a step back.

"Oh, that's Peeta," I tell her nonchalantly. "My district partner."

She doesn't even try to hide her surprise, gaping at me momentarily, her eyes wide. Then she pulls herself together. "I guess you really do know how to grow them in 12."

"I guess so," I say with a shrug, before turning away. "I'm gonna go say hi to him. Nice to meet you."

I tell myself, as I approach Peeta, that I'm going to see him because I want to apologize for leaving early. Because I couldn't wait to get away from Glimmer and her disapproving stare.

But I feel a flutter of nervous excitement when I stop before him, smoothing down my skirt.

"Hey," I say, my mouth quirking into a bashful sort-of frown. "Sorry I left without you. I, uh, knocked on your door a couple times and you didn't answer."

He shakes his head easily. "It was my fault. I got in the shower way too late. I was on the phone and I lost track of time."

On the phone. With Delly, probably.

"You want to go meet the competition?" He asks, squaring back his shoulders slightly and taking a deep breath.

We do. We meet them all. Clove, the surly girl from Two. Her partner, it turns out, is the country-loving blonde guy. His name is Cato, and he's every bit as cocky and loud-mouthed as I expected him to be.

"I thought he looked familiar," Peeta whispered to me as we walked away from them a few minutes later. "He's Representative Cullin's son."

"The guy who got the DUI and somehow kept his seat?"

Peeta nods, rolling his eyes, as we move toward Thresh and an athletic-looking girl with brown hair. "The very one. I shouldn't be surprised he's here. He probably thinks he's had a seat in the House waiting for him his whole life."

We meet Marvel, Glimmer's partner, who seems kind-of geeky but incredibly articulate. Then there's Margaret, a beautiful and charismatic girl from 4 who tells me she'll be swimming for Panem University in the fall.

One theme seems to emerge, no matter who I talk to. Most of the people here don't _need_ the scholarship that will come with winning. They're here to stand out. To make an impression with the university and the government officials. To make connections.

And _all_ of them seem better poised to do so than I feel. They all chat eagerly about the books they've read and videos they've watched to prepare for the competition. How their brother, or their father, or their best friend went through the Capitol Games and succeeded.

There isn't a word for how discouraged I feel, by the time we're ready to make our way to Snow Hall. At some point in the 15 minutes it took us to make the rounds, I stopped talking all together and let Peeta fill everyone in about where we came from.

And he must have noticed, how withdrawn I became. Because as we leave our dormitory and start to walk, in staggered groups, down the sidewalk that leads back to the main campus, Peeta hangs back with me until we're several yards behind the rest of the group.

"You okay?" He asks, casually, like we're friends and he's asked me a million times before.

I shoot him a look that tells him I don't want to talk. And I know he registers it, because a half-smile ghosts across his lips for just a moment.

Still, he speaks again.

"It's kind-of crazy, isn't it? How well off these kids are. Did you see Marvel's cufflinks? Gucci?"

I roll my eyes. Because I didn't. But I'm not surprised.

"It seems a little unfair," he continues, lowering his voice just a little - like he's cognizant of being overheard. "We're all vying for an amazing scholarship. How many of us really _need_ it?"

A chill runs through me - because for the second time today, it almost feels like he's reading my mind. I never expected Peeta Mellark, someone I've always viewed as far wealthier than me, to be aware of how unbalanced things are for poor people sometimes.

But then, I think, compared to a lot of the kids here, Peeta and his family probably aren't that well off at all. What counts as making a great living in Seam County is probably barely middle class to people like Glimmer or Cato.

Still. It stings a bit, that Peeta is talking about the people that need a scholarship. Since of the two of us, we're both well aware who needs it the most. Even if he doesn't know that that scholarship is the difference between me coming back to Panem University as a student, or leaving it behind forever once this competition is over.

"It pisses me off," he says, and I'm surprised by the edge that's poured into his voice. "It really pisses me off sometimes."

"What?"

"This system. How unfair it is," he says, shaking his head. "It's set up to reward the rich. Sure, everyone else gets a chance. But they have to work three times as hard. It's fucked up."

I don't mean to stare at him. I don't. But it's mesmerizing, watching him rant. We've slowed way down - the rest of the group is barely in sight by now - but I don't care about that. I'm too preoccupied with the redness that's tinting his cheeks now, the way his nostrils flare slightly as he speaks.

"Well, we have to know our place, don't we?" I say, dryly. "Poor people, I mean. It's like it's all designed to keep everything going. Not disturb the status quo too much. But give us just enough of a hint at what it _could_ be like if we get lucky; if we work hard enough."

"If _both_," he agrees. "You need _both_. Luck. Hard work. It's bullshit."

He's not even watching his voice now - it's risen considerably, the angrier he's gotten. So much so that I start to worry maybe one of the other candidates - or worse, a facilitator - will hear him. Because while he's right - while even I have to admit that he's right - he shouldn't be saying those kinds of things where just anybody can hear him.

I tell him so. And he nods, shakily, exhaling. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"_You're_ right," I tell him quietly. He eyes me carefully, like he's not entirely sure I'm being open with him. "Well, you are," I insist defensively.

He smiles then. Tentatively, but there's a hint of something more in his gaze when he looks at me. "That's why I want to do this, you know?"

"Do what?"

"Politics. Because the rules are broken. So it doesn't matter if you break the rules. You have to fix them. You have to _change_ them."

It's my turn to watch him. And I don't know what it is - how I've gone from barely being able to string together a sentence in front of him, to barely being able to look him the eye, to barely being able to take my eyes off of him in the span of a day. But right now, I'm overwhelmingly grateful that Peeta Mellark is my partner in the Games.

"So you wanna change the rules, not break them."

"Well, I guess I'm good with breaking them too. In the meantime, anyway."

"Showing up late to this dinner is probably a good start," I tell him.

He laughs in response, the surprisingly enjoyable sound cutting into the clear night air. Then he looks down at the ground shyly, as we continue to walk toward Snow Hall.

When he looks up at me again, his eyes have a softness to them. One I haven't seen since that day in the bakery. But there's something more there - something I can't name.

"Hey, Katniss?" He says, his voice as different as his eyes and sounding wholly unsure.

"What?" I ask, unsure why I suddenly feel so nervous again.

But before he can tell me what he was going to say, his phone - buried deep in his blazer pocket - starts to ring.

It feels like the air has been sucked out of me. And I can't even explain why. Peeta looks equally alarmed as he fumbles for the device, sighing deeply when he sees who's calling.

I catch a glimpse of his smartphone screen, too. Delly's smiling face is there under her name. Of course.

He looks at me apologetically. "I have to take this. I'm sorry. I'll, uh… I'll meet you there?"

Without questioning him, I nod curtly and then pull ahead, forcing myself not to look behind me when I hear him answer.

"Hey, Del."

I realize, as I hurry along the rest of the way, that it's gotten chilly - even for early summer.

_Strange_, I think, that I didn't notice it until I was walking alone.

- end chapter two -

* * *

><p><strong>NOTE: <strong>Thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, favorited and reviewed chapter one. Polisci!Peeta (as we call him on Tumblr) is near and dear to my heart, and I'm glad to have you along for the ride.


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